A Little of Both
by terrible-but-great474
Summary: A sequel to my story Slaves and Sleeplessness. Draco and Hermione, age 16, use a charmed journal to communicate as the Wizarding War progresses.
1. Chapter 1

Hermione arrived in the dungeon she had hated for so long with a fully stocked potion set and ample note taking supplies. Perhaps Professor Slughorn would look past their ill-preparedness, knowing what he did about Snape's teaching methods. Hadn't the former taught the latter? How strange to think about. She tried to imagine a teenage Snape, greasy hair falling in front of his face as he slaved over his potions notes, and hoped that Professor Slughorn was nothing like his student.

She took a seat at the front of the room a bit self-consciously. She always preferred the front...except in Potions. She took a deep breath and shook out her nerves, along with her brown hair, happily flat today instead of the bush she had grown used to. Thank the puberty gods, it was starting to lie tame more and more frequently without the need for enchantments or potions. Not that she hadn't charmed it just a smidge. Who could resist?

It would be strange not having a class with the boys, but they had a free period this morning. Seemed their OWLs weren't good enough, she thought to herself smugly, then pinked with guilt at her thoughts. A glance around the room showed her hardly anyone had had the marks to make it in. A few Ravenclaws, one Hufflepuff, and a gaggle of Slytherins were all sitting segregated from each other. Of course the Slytherins would have an easier time getting in, thanks to Snape. _Though, he really is quite intelligent_ , she thought as she pointedly ignored the flash of blonde hair across the room. _Probably didn't need the help._ She bit her lip and stared down at the pewter table.

They hadn't spoken in two years. Not since the night He returned and Cedric was killed. Last year, it had been he who had ratted out the DA, and he who continually tormented the three of them, her and her friends. She had thought their separation to be heart-wrenching and romantic, and somewhere in her heart it still was, but after all this time, and all this distance, it was hard to remember the young boy eager to please who would write to her when he had nightmares. It was hard to look past the snide comments, the outright insults, the tired eyes, the hollow laughter. Did his friends notice how much wearier he seemed this year? She had flinched in surprise when she saw him on the train, dressed in a black Muggle suit (which really didn't help a sixteen year old boy blend in), and being shepherded along by his proud father and concerned mother. He hadn't looked terrible, but he was paler even than before, and his eyes refused to rest, instead darting from wall to wall, his shoulders tense. She knew the look, but not what it meant. All last year, she had seen it, and in the following days, sure enough, the Daily Prophet would report such-and-such about Death Eaters caught Muggle-baiting, Malfoy Manor being searched, Azakban breakouts. What could be troubling him this time? Her heart faltered when she saw him look that way. He was horribly rude, but he was still Draco. Still her fallen angel...just how far had he fallen as of late?

Just then, the dungeon door squealed open and, wouldn't you know it, Ron and Harry came stumbling in. Hermione rolled her eyes. She listened to them explain about Professor Slughorn's lower requirements and lent each of them one of her seven extra quills. Honestly, who didn't have quills on the first day of term? Looks like she wouldn't be getting any peace from her ragtag mates, but perhaps that was for her own good, she thought as her eyes dodged downward, away from the forlorn gray stare across the room.

Professor Slughorn bubbled around the classroom, making introductions, talking about past students. Hermione had of course read through the class materials and expected to have to brew a potion from the first chapter. She recited the information in her head while taking notes on the potions that Professor Slughorn had brought in to the class. The fresh scent of mown grass surprised her out of her internal recitation. Grass in a dungeon? She focused in on what Professor Slughorn was saying. Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in the world. Hermione's eyes widened. Surely they weren't going to be brewing something so devastating. Matters of the heart could do more damage than blades, she felt, staring determinedly ahead.

Over two years, she had grown used to ignoring Draco, but it never got easier. He was her first true friend, her first love, her first...anyways, it wasn't something you forgot about in a few short years. His sharp laugh would echo across the room and her vision would swim before her eyes, remembering his touch, that same laugh whispering in her ear, his grin going goofy and all for her. She loved watching him on the Quidditch field, and had to explain away her cheers for Slytherin by pretending to know nothing of the sport. Honestly, did they think there was anything Hermione Jean Granger knew nothing about? Hmph. Not likely.

She set to work on their task: a chapter one spell that she had read over several times, the Draught of Living Death. She knew what to do, but it was still tremendously difficult. She poured all her effort into it, not a single other thought crossing her mind. She didn't even care to correct Harry for slicing his Sopophorous Bean incorrectly. Her calculated movements and patient precision through the tedious science of potion-making had gotten her this far, and it would get her through today. Professor Slughorn had even offered a prize, something Hermione found to be an excellent teaching method for those students less self-motivated than herself. Not to brag, but, well okay, _yes_ to brag. One bottle of Felix Felicis. She didn't know what she'd do with it, probably save it in her jewelry box for a very special day, maybe her wedding day when it came. Anyways, it would be nice just to have. Academics didn't earn you many trophies and she'd like to have something to bring home to show to her parents. Maybe she would even give it to them, as a Christmas gift. It would help them understand magic a bit more, and if anyone deserved it, they did. They were the best parents a Mudblood like her could ask for.

Harry disrupted her thoughts, insisting that she use his hair-brained method for preparing the ingredients, but she shooed him away. As the class went on, however, she noticed a definite difference between her draught and his, and not the usual difference. Hers was steaming softly, which it was _not_ meant to be doing, while his was bubbling away just like in the diagram. Aggravated, she ran her fingers through her hair and found it to have frizzed up by the humidity. She grumbled under her breath and looked up hopelessly, allowing a moment of brief panic before correcting her unknown error. Unfortunately, in her respite, she spotted Draco, his gray eyes staring intently down. She could practically see the meticulous calculations going on in his head as he stirred his cauldron three times clockwise, waited seven seconds, then stirred twice more counterclockwise. When he stopped to let it come to a boil, he gazed longingly at the vial of Felix Felicis in the center of the room. His eyes held none of the warm desire she had seen in them before, replaced now by an almost cruel thirst for his reward. A subtle difference, but immensely important, and a vice many Slytherins were apt to fall to, though she couldn't blame them for the ambition which burned in her too.

When she turned her attention back to her work, it was with a groan of dismay. This situation was quickly falling out of her control. She hurried consulted her textbook and set back to stirring in sprigs of wheat, which _should_ counter the steam she was seeing now... _poof._ A tiny explosion covered her face in smoke and she held her breath, trying not to cry. It had seemed so simple when she read the instructions this summer, why on _Earth_ was Harry grinning at his perfectly clear potion? She felt her pulse quicken and her face redden but-luckily-before she could say anything, a small bell chimed. Class was over. She had lost. As soon as she could, she gathered her books and stalked up to Gryffindor Tower, knocking Draco's books off his desk as she passed by.


	2. Chapter 2

Normally, she would have gone to lunch with the boys, but she was so upset and disappointed in herself she went instead to her room and curved her hunger with a small handful of peanuts from the jar by her bed. Not like they would miss her. Not like she needed to be eating so much anyway. All the negative thoughts that she worked so hard every day to get rid of starting flowing back to her and she bitterly tore open the cover of _Advanced Potion Making_ to see where she had gone wrong. If she couldn't fix the past, she cold at least be prepared for the future, and while she didn't plan to ever need to brew a poison, it may come in handy one day. Maybe it would win her a prize. Maybe she would poison Voldemort. That would be a laugh.

Since she had the afternoon off, Hermione decided a walk around the grounds might clear her head. If she felt sprightly enough, she might even visit Hagrid. She grabbed her cloak, as it was becoming a peckish September, and made her way down to the common room. She spotted Ginny by the fire in Ron's preferred chair, talking with Dean and Seamus, but she didn't stop to say hello. They didn't notice her. She climbed out the portrait hole and walked briskly down the corridors, deciding to reroute her trip and stopping at a familiar door on the third floor.

The Sorcerer's Stone had once lain beyond this door. That night had been the beginning of so much change. Hermione never thought she would be a key player in a war, but it was beginning to look that way. She put her hand against the wooden door. It had seemed so much bigger back then. Now she had much more frightful things to consider than a door, and yet how formidable it had seemed to her. Perhaps one day should would look back wistfully and think of how formidable the Death Eaters had seemed, only because she was small...somehow she doubted it. She bit her lip and felt her eyes sting. She simply didn't know how she would get through this, how it would all play out. Would she lose Harry? Ron? And what of the countless others at the school she knew by face but not by name? How could she protect them? She couldn't even protect herself. If three first years could get past Dumbledore's protective measures, what hope did they have against an army of Dark wizards?

She heard a tumbler click, and the door swung open. She jumped back in surprise, her heart racing. The boy walking through was equally surprised apparently, his eyes widened, throwing dark circles into relief. When Draco realized he was looking at Hermione Granger, he scrunched up his face and pushed past her, but she grabbed his arm and challenged him, "What are _you_ doing down here?"

He bit back, "This is open space, Granger, I'm not breaking any rules."

"I happen to know there's nothing beyond that door that should interest you," she contested.

"Well I don't know why I came out _that_ door any more than you do," he grumbled, leaving Hermione perplexed.

"And just what door did you expect to come out of then?"

"With any luck, one where I wouldn't have to deal with _you!_ " he roared.

"Draco...?" her voice had lost any edge, his comment stung so much. He hadn't spoken to her like that in years, ever really. She knew he wanted to keep up appearances for their safety, but no one was here now. Why couldn't they, for one stolen moment, be friends again? She put her fingers gently on his arm; his skin was hot with anger. "Have you been crying?" she asked.

He looked down at her and scowled. "Like you haven't," he said and tore his arm away. He had walked about ten feet when he turned around and added, through clenched teeth, "There's a war on here, in case you haven't noticed. Toughen up." And then he turned and left.

Hermione stood there only a moment longer, shocked tears in her eyes, and continued in the opposite direction down to the grounds. She walked under the stone archway of an outdoor corridor around the perimeter of the castle, her feet hitting stone but her surroundings showing her the grassy hills and trees blowing in the wind. She always imagined that this was what college would look like: and old castle and lots of open air and natural landscaping. She had always planned on going to Harvard, until one day she found out she was a witch and her schooling took a new turn. She supposed she still could go to college. Or rather, _one_ could. Not her. Draco was right, there was a war on, and she had been drafted. Whatever plans she had for the future had to be put on hold. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Noble? Disappointed? Probably a bit of both. Sure she wanted to be of value, but she was no soldier. Maybe joining the Order was just as crazy at her age as becoming a Death Eater, but Draco wasn't...she stopped her thoughts there.

She passed by Luna, who waved cheerfully in her direction but continued chatting with her Ravenclaw friend. Hermione nodded hello at the two as she passed. This was how most of her friendships were, if you could call them friendship. Vague acknowledgement of each other, most likely due to their shared past in Harry's ridiculously dangerous life. _Honestly_ , that boy. He was more trouble than anyone Hermione had ever met or read about, including Tyson the Troublesome, a rebel leader during the Elvish Uprising of 1412. And yet, the thought of Harry made her smile. At least she had one friend who vaguely understood what it was like to be an outcast. She had had a much better friend, once, but even Draco couldn't understand her when it came to her home life. How could he understand a life he'd never seen?


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter's short cause I've been busy at University but I wanted to get some Draco in there before the weekend, will update again soon!**

Draco paced the walls of his dormitory, his left forearm red and agitated from where he'd been rubbing it. He stopped himself for the umpteenth time, shoving his hands in his pockets to resist the urge. He felt feverish, even so deep underground. The dungeon had never felt claustrophobic; instead the walls seemed to stretch up miles above him, dark shadow looming above where the soft lamps couldn't reach. He lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling, reaching his arm up and extending his fingers toward that shadow.

Of course, he couldn't reach it. No one could extend their hand to the ceiling of a vaulted room while laying on a bed. The idea itself was ridiculous. Impossible. _Perhaps_ he could charm his arm to stretch further, or his body to levitate. He thought of the wand movement involved, the incantation and inflection, and he lowered his arm. He sighed heavily and rolled on to his side. _Magic can't solve everything,_ he thought bitterly, _it's a cheap way to get ahead. Being a skilled sorcerer is like being a skilled liar: you may be good, but your talent is wasted on vagrancy and deceit. Theives' skills, his father would call it._

Though according to his father, magic _could_ solve everything. Draco just wasn't trying hard enough. He had to _mean_ it. There was no way around it.

He noticed he was rubbing his arm and stopped.

Two meters away, in his drawer, was a marbled journal, sometimes green and sometimes red. He could open it right now and tell her everything. He hadn't noticed the tension in his face until he felt it relax. He inched his arm toward his drawer. Maybe magic was good for some things.

He stopped, his face darkening. If he wrote to her, it would be found, and both of them killed. He withdrew his arm, but the knowledge that she was so close was killing him. He dug his fingernails into the putrid black ink on his arm and stifled a yell. _No,_ he thought. _Anything granted by magic is just as easily taken away._


End file.
